by Chris Poirier

I wake with a start to motion and blinding sunshine. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the light, but the dream stabs at me from the backs of my eyelids, and I snap them open again. My shirt is damp with sweat, and I start to shiver, despite the warmth of the sun through the windscreen.

“You’re turning where that car is coming out,” Keely says hurriedly, pointing past me from the back seat. Brennan just nods and continues driving.

I arch forward in my seat, to separate my shirt from my back, but it clings stubbornly. I reach back and pull it away.

“Have a good nap?” Keely asks. I can hear the smirk in her voice even before I turn to see it.

I shrug, and run my hand up past my forehead. Even my hair feels damp.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Uh, maybe a couple of minutes?”

Really. Felt like longer.

The image flashes again, across my eyelids as I blink—him, the older me, standing over her. I clench my teeth and pull away.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks, a hint of worry in her voice. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“I’m fine,” I reply, and shake my head. “Probably just woke up too quickly.” I try to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out right.

“Maybe you should go back to sleep for a while. It’s most of an hour before we get there.”

I regret my tone almost before the words are out of my mouth. Brennan turns to look at me, and I hear Keely drop back into her seat behind him.

Nice job, Tiergan. Nice fucking job.

I crane around in my seat to apologize, but she’s staring out the window, her jaw set.

“Keely . . . I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way . . . . ”

She doesn’t respond.

“You were right—I’m not feeling quite myself, just now. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m sorry.”

She nods once, but doesn’t turn back.

I wait another moment, then resettle myself in my seat. I’ll just have to give her some time—I’ve got nobody to blame but me, anyway. Brennan shakes his head at me slowly, a look of . . . something—contempt? disappointment?—on his face, then returns to his driving.

Whether or not it met your expectations, it worked well enough for me.

I’ve had a few installments that I’ve had a high level of frustration with. One of them I still want to revise. That being said, I’m reminded of one of my trumpet teachers (a jazz musician) who told me on a couple occasions that what you actually play never matches up to what you hear in your head.

Thanks guys — I appreciate the support. The writing here just feels very clumsy to me, and the version I chucked . . . I couldn’t make the ends line up. Anyway, this one gets me to a place where WR59 is possible, which is something.

I’m going to echo everyone else’s sentiments and say it read fine to me. I felt Tiergan’s frustration and guilt (now whether that’s what you wanted the reader to feel I don’t know, but I figure it’s better to have a reader to feel something rather than nothing).